My Story
by Roxas Sandwich
Summary: Namine and Roxas are siblings. Together they work hard to deal with their abusive father. But things goes worse that night... AU/OOC maybe/ONESHOT


**Good day, everyone!**

**This is a short story I wrote for an English magazine. Since English is not my first language, I hope nothing will confuse you.**

**Well, happy reading!**

**:D**

**Discalimer: I own nothing….**

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**My Story**

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People passed our apartment today. They dressed in thick coat, scarf, and gloves. The chilling autumn wind was indeed freezing. I even wore my best thick coat with red huge buttons on the front. Holding my little brother's hand, we were heading to the nearby playground from our apartment.

"Wouldn't daddy be mad if we leave home?" he asked me. His big blue eyes stared at mine innocently.

"Oh, no," I answered with a high tone, ruffling his soft blonde hair. "He wouldn't. He would just shout like a dog."

"That means he's mad," my brother complained. "I hate it when he hit me."

I stopped and kneeled in his front. He was too short to look at my face when I am standing. "Oh, my sweet cupcake, you know I am always here with you all the time. If he comes to hit you again, just call me. I always have a set of kitchen utensils to backfire his actions."

My brother smiled cutely. "I know I can count on you, Namine!"

"You do know that, Roxas," I replied, and smiled as cute as I could.

That afternoon, we played in the playground together, meeting some of our neighbors and chatting about why the flowers and leaves wither in autumn. Such a stupid topic, but my neighbors seemed to find it interesting.

Being a seventeen year old, I had to be strong. Each time my so-called-father came home, he always brought a fistful of hatred for me and Roxas. Last night, he hit my little brother on his left arm. Roxas was six. He was too young to bear the pain that he cried all night in my room. Of course, I couldn't let my brother suffer because of our father. I hit my father with a frying pan. He bled, and I laughed. I received a painful slap, and went to sleep without caring for the wound.

Since the death of our mother, my father changed from a loving father to a complete bastard. He never brought enough money home. He never bought me any clothes—thanks to my part-time job that I was able to fund myself. He still funded my brother, though. Maybe it was because Roxas was too young to earn himself, and neglecting a kid his age could send him to jail.

My father hated us. When he got home, he often hit me or my brother just for fun's sake. Blood gushing from our mouth was the best humor for him. He once laughed so hard that it almost shredded my ear membrane. I kept trying to figure out what changed him to this kind of monster. Was this the death of our mother? Or was this his true self?

So we got home after getting tired of playing and chatting. Roxas sat on our dining chair, waiting for me to finish heating up some leftover red pepper soup I made this morning. We were so poor, that we always kept leftover in our cheap fridge. The food always tasted like fridge, but this was all we had.

"Daddy hasn't home yet," Roxas started as he played with his spoon. "I hope we don't need to deal with him again like last night."

"We won't," I ensured him, pouring some heated up soup to a bowl. "I have given him enough lessons about hitting. My kitchen utensils army is on our side, so you don't have to worry, Roxas."

"Then we can sleep peacefully!" Roxas laughed.

We ate the leftover soup together. The clock was counting every second. The day was getting darker and colder. Our abusive father hadn't home yet. Did something happen to him? Was he hit by a truck on his way home? Oh, stop it. I shouldn't have had those evil thoughts. Well, I couldn't help. I hated him with all my life for his abusive manner.

My eyes opened when I heard some roar of a car machine outside. It was our father's car. He never let me drive his car—well, I couldn't drive, actually. Then let me change the sentence; he never let me or Roxas sit in his car. But who's stupid enough to beg him to sit in that car? His car was not good in shape. It was a broken car, as a matter of fact. He bought it from a neighbor. Seventy percent lower than the real price. Still, our father loved the car like a Ferrari.

I stayed still in my bed, locking my eyes to Roxas's face. He was afraid to sleep in his room alone, so he wanted to sleep in my room. Father's heavy footsteps were getting closer to my room, much to my surprise. I wondered who he was looking for. Me or Roxas? And why? Those questions filled my head, sending nauseas to my belly.

My room's door was opened. The bright ray from outside hurt my eyes. To pretend that I was asleep—and to avoid his abusive behavior—I squeezed my eyes close.

Even blinded by my own self, I still had my hearing ability. I heard father approached my bed, and called for Roxas. I didn't have enough courage to open my eyes. I was scared. Yes, I did say that I would protect Roxas no matter what, but… I actually was scared….

"Namine!"

I forced open my eyes as I heard Roxas screamed my name. I got up, and saw father picking Roxas up.

"Dad, where are you going to take him?" I asked harshly.

Father glanced at me. "I want to have some time off with my boy. You stay home and don't make any noise."

"At this hour?" I shouted. "Can't you have your time off with Roxas after his school? Like any normal fathers will do?"

Father sniffed. "Shut up already." He walked away with Roxas still in his arms. The boy looked at me sadly, and his mouth mimicked something that read, 'Help me.'

"Dad!" Though I shouted, he never stopped. I could only see them from my window; father putting Roxas to the backseat of his car, then he sat on the driver's seat, and left.

It was in the middle of the night. It was freezing. It was painful to lie alone thinking of my brother.

Father came home in the very first of the morning. Alone. When I asked him where Roxas was, he silenced his mouth. I thought Roxas was hiding inside the car, so I searched inside. There was nothing. I had this thought again that he might be hiding in the kitchen or his bedroom or the toilet or wherever. I searched for him again. Again and again.

I found nothing.

Roxas never return home.

I couldn't bear the pain of losing him. I kept believing he stayed somewhere in the city or someone rich and kind had adopted him due to his overloaded cuteness and kindness. But I still couldn't let him all by himself with strange people.

Father didn't say a word since Roxas' disappearance. I wanted to call the police, and told them that my father had drowned my brother in the lake near our city. But that was not the real reason behind his disappearance. I could be sentenced to jail for making a prank call then. In a time like today, no one is too young to be jailed.

"You killed him, didn't you?!"

I finally got the guts to say that to father. My face was red in anger, head bloated with yearning that got too huge to be held by my skull. I gripped a floor lamp tightly, wanting to smash its shade to father's white as a sheet face. His eyes turned around, escaping my piercing gaze. Our apartment seemed darker than before. I guessed an alien had eaten our lights.

"You did that because you hate him, didn't you?"

"Namine, get real already!" he shouted at me.

"Ah, so you dare shout back at me, huh?" I frowned in disgust, shaking my head. "There could be no excuse for you, dear father. Let me smash that ugly face of yours with my lamp!"

"I said, get real, Namine! You ran out of imagining time for today," father told me.

Wait. That was not father.

The man snatched my arm, and put back the floor lamp to its place. I blinked in confusion. What was happening? Everything turned completely different. The dark apartment swirled into a white and cold room. The stolen lights were back. I couldn't feel the disgusting feeling of the apartment or the father anymore. This white room and that man who was putting back the lamp washed all the grunge of the earlier atmosphere.

"You were so hyper today," he said, escorting me back to a white bed.

I stared blankly at him. That face was not father's. The face was a lot younger than his, a lot sweeter, and kinder. I thought I knew him. Well, give me time to remember who he was.

"I took notes on everything you said just now," he continued in a sweet tone. "So, it was a story about a father, a son, and a daughter. You are the daughter, am I right?"

I nodded. "Uh-huh. I was about to kill the father for killing my brother."

"Did he really kill your brother?" he asked, preparing his pen on his notebook.

I stared at the ceiling. "Uh, no. My brother is very cute, so father won't kill him. So then he will come back after I kill father."

The man giggled. "You are always full of imagination, Namine. I am proud of you."

"Oh, Doctor Zexion, you are always full of sweet words!"

Yes, his name is Doctor Zexion. He is my doctor.

"Now, now, Namine," he said, putting his pen into his coat pocket, "take your medicine, and go to bed. I'm sure you are so tired of all the imagining today." He took a brown bottle filled with crunchy tablets from an end table next to my bed, and gave me one of the tablets and a glass of water.

"May I make a story again tomorrow?" I asked.

I don't have any father.

"Oh, sure, darling." Doctor Zexion smiled tenderly.

I don't have any brother. I don't live in an apartment. I just like making stories.

"Good night, darling." Doctor Zexion turned off my room's lamp, and left.

I live here, in this white room under Doctor Zexion's care. This white room is only a small part of an enormous asylum. People are afraid of my hobbies; telling too much stories with violence including smashing or slashing. That's why I was sent here, to this asylum. I met with people with similar manner as mine, and people who are willing to care for us and listen to our thousand stories with actions without shuddering in fear.

I'm happy here. This asylum is my heaven.

I can't wait to tell more stories to Doctor Zexion!

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**FIN**

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**That's all!**

**To avoid confusion, here is a little explanation: Namine has a mental illness in which she likes telling stories with violence in it, such as hitting, smashing, and so on. While telling her story, she will do what the main character in her story does. So if the main character is attacking someone, Namine will attack someone, too. People are afraid of her, and sent her to a mental asylum.**

**Well, see you next time!**

**Wish me luck for my college project!**


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